Jul 2015
The clouds are plastic,
Plastered to the sky,
Synthetic blue,
Fragile behind.
The sun is always burns,
Our tiny worlds turn,
We peer through mirrors
To gaze at our creation.
Plastered to the sky,
Synthetic blue,
Fragile behind.
The sun is always burns,
Our tiny worlds turn,
We peer through mirrors
To gaze at our creation.
